Coconuts and Coffee Beans
by Alasse Faelivrin
Summary: A case of mistaken identity leaves Elizabeth and Ronon stranded off world.


Title: Coconuts and Coffee Beans  
Author: Bounty/Alasse  
Rating: K+  
Pairing: Liz/Ronon  
Summary: A case of mistaken identity leaves Elizabeth and Ronon stranded off world.

A/N: Hugs and chocolates to the yahell gang (Aniko, Dee, Yllek, Em, et al) for putting up with my pasting, and for correcting it. (Even if Aniko can only see the ship on the water….)

xxxxxxx

We run.

And run. And run. It's about all I can do to drag one foot in front of the other.

My lungs are completely on fire, each breath is a sharp knife through my chest. My leg muscles are Jell-O, and not the good blue kind either. Whatever adrenalin my glands have managed to shoot in to my blood stream is long since depleted. I'm running on lactic fumes.

I manage to croak Ronon's name just as the toe of my boot connects with the raised root of one of the trees I was admiring earlier. I go flying.

Ronon brakes and turns just in time to catch my flailing arms and keep me off the ground.

"Can we… break," I wheeze as he sets me back on my feet.

"Don't stop cold," he advises me. "Walk."

He lets me set the pace and I stagger in front of him. We've gone about two miles, maybe three, and I feel like I've just run the New York City Marathon. Ronon looks like he could go on and do Boston, and then Chicago for good measure.

I need to get out of my office more.

Ronon looks genuinely puzzled that I am so tired. When I catch my breath I'm going to be embarrassed. Probably even McKay can run farther than me. For now, I concentrate on moving my feet and avoiding roots, rocks and holes.

Ronon fishes a water bottle out of the pack he's carrying and hands it to me. I chug nearly half the water before handing it back to him. He takes a swig and puts it back. Next he pulls a power bar from his coat pocket, rips open the wrapper and offers it to me. I tear off a piece and chew slowly. My breath is no longer coming in painful wheezes and my heart rate is sinking back toward the double digits.

I'm soaked with sweat. My shirt and jacket are stuck to both my back and front, and I don't even want to think about my hair. I can feel at least three blisters starting on my right foot and my left isn't far behind. These boots were made for walking, not running.

I turn to Ronon, who is striding along beside me. He's poised and alert, and doesn't look like he's even broken a sweat.

"We need to keep moving," he says. "It will be dark soon – we should find shelter."

"Shelter," I repeat. "Then what?"

"When we don't return, Sheppard will send a team through the gate," he answers. "We hole up and wait for him." He pats his pocket. "I've got a radio."

_ i Hole up and wait. /i _I know that wouldn't be his first choice if he were with anyone else but me. He'd fight back, even try to take back the gate on his own, but he won't risk letting me get hurt. I lower my head. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

He turns to face me and lifts my chin so I look into his eyes. "I didn't survive against the wraith by just fighting," he tells me gravely. "I did a lot of hiding too. The trick was to know when to fight and when to hide."

"Know when to hold and know when to fold them," I attempt a brave nod.

He gives me a quizzical smile in return. I think I've been listening to too much of John's music.

"There's a thick grove ahead," he says. "Just a bit further."

He's trying to be encouraging. The least I can do is be encouraged. I nod and lead the way.

It's starting to rain, and by the time we reach the fir trees, the parts of my clothing that were not wet with sweat are now wet with rain water. Three trees have grown together, with their branches intertwined and we duck inside. The branches form a fairly tight roof, and the ground is covered with dry pine needles.

I sink down onto the dry ground, and pull my knees into my chest. I've cooled down from my run and now my wet clothes are cold. I start to shiver. Tugging off my sodden jacket and dropping it in a heap, I rub my hands over my icy arms.

I feel a hand at my back, and then Ronon drapes his leather greatcoat over my shoulders. He sits cross-legged and bare-armed opposite me, back slightly hunched to avoid tangling his braids in the lowest branches.

He places the pack in between us, and sets the radio on top. We stare at the silent black instrument, expecting it to burst into static filled life any second now.

We wait.

xxxxxxxx

24 Hours Earlier:

"Good morning," I greet everyone as they file into the conference room at 0800.

Sheppard is bright eyed and bushy haired, with a spring in his step. He drops into his chair, rocks it back and gives me a grin.

Teyla sits up straight in her chair, her hands folded primly in front of her on the conference table. She's probably been up for hours already.

Ronon enters, gives me a nod, and slinks panther-like into his seat. His hair is down and damp about the edges from his shower after his morning run.

"How many miles today?" John asks him. It's part of their daily macho routine.

Ronon shrugs. "Did the east pier a few times, then the north. You?"

"Didn't run," John drawls. "Sparred with Teyla. Downed her three times." He grins.

Ronon folds his arms thoughtfully. He turns to Teyla and quirks his eyebrow. "How many times did you down him?"

Teyla suppresses a smile, as John's grin deflates. "More," she says.

John is saved from responding by the arrival of Rodney McKay. Tablet held under his arm by one hand, he's clutching a large mug of coffee in the other. Yawning widely he drops into the seat between Ronon and Teyla. He manages to deposit both the coffee and computer onto the table without incident before slouching back into the chair.

"Late night, McKay?" Sheppard asks, glancing over at me. I try not to smile, and instead arch an eyebrow in the direction of the scientist.

"You've no idea," McKay mutters. He takes a long drink of his coffee and taps at his computer. "If we had at least one other halfway competent scientist on this boat, I could get some work done without having to hold everyone's hand."

"Micromanaging," Sheppard translates for me in a loud whisper. McKay scowls at him.

Ronon is looking intently over McKay's shoulder at the tablet. Rodney turns his scowl to him. "What?"

"Nothing," Ronon says. He leans back and folds his arms, looking at me.

I clear my throat. "Now that I have everyone's attention," I say. The others look at me expectantly. "The first item on the agenda this morning is P3X-485."

John snaps his fingers. "Orlando."

"Orlandra," Teyla corrects.

"Right."

McKay looks up from his computer with a frown. "Citrus Hell."

"They had things other than oranges, McKay," John says. "Though those were some really big oranges."

McKay shudders.

"As I recall, Rodney," Teyla says. "They had a bean which resembles your coffee bean." She gestures to his cup.

"Dr Beckett analyzed the kave bean," I add, "and found it to contain twice as much caffeine as a coffee bean."

"Just think Rodney," John says. "You'd only have to drink half as much coffee to get the same result."

"I remember the taste being quite different," McKay says, but he seems mollified to a degree.

"The issue," I say, "is that all of the produce we want to trade for is grown on the southern continent, but the stargate is located in the north. Now according to Teyla's report, the traders from the south bring their wares north once a year and that will be," I glance down at my tablet, "in two days time."

"Can't we just fly a jumper down south and trade with the farmers directly?" John asks.

Teyla shakes her head. "I have dealt with these people in the past," she says. "They possess only very primitive technology and are wary of strangers. We would not be welcome in the south. However the annual harvest market in the north is open to all to trade."

"Fine," says McKay. "So we go tomorrow, when the coconuts and coffee beans migrate north. Someone else can carry the oranges."

The day passes slowly. I drink coffee. I read reports that I've been putting off for far too long. I drink more coffee. I settle disputes between Kavanaugh and the other scientists. I long for something stronger than coffee.

At dinner I look about for Ronon, not for his conversation skills, but because watching him eat fascinates me. He's not there, and neither are any of his team, so I join Carson Beckett.

Carson starts off by telling me in graphic detail about the knee surgery he just performed this morning. I'm very happy that Lieutenant Humphries will be walking again soon, but I push aside my chicken with marinara sauce and instead nibble on the edge of my roll.

Seeing me, Carson blushes and changes the topic. As he starts waxing adoring on the attributes of Lieutenant Cadman, I sigh and consider skipping dessert. They're out of blue Jell-O again anyway.

I feel both relief and guilt when the overhead intercom calls Carson to a medical emergency in the jumper bay. I run along with him. Several teams are off base, but only one would not be using the stargate. Major Lorne's team is excavating some ruins found on the mainland.

As we enter the bay we are met first by the medical team, then by Lorne, hopping on his right foot, with a marine on either side holding him up. "It's not an emergency, Doc," Lorne says. "They're overreacting. It's just my leg."

"Your leg is broken. Sir." The marine on his right speaks stiffly. Lorne glares at him.

"I'll be the judge of what is and isn't an emergency," Carson says curtly. He grabs Lorne's arm and guides him onto a gurney.

Behind them, Doctor Grant Soloman, our resident archeologist, exits the jumper, wringing his hands. "I've got to get back there!"

"The rocks will wait, Doc," Lorne says, rolling his eyes.

"You don't understand." Soloman is almost wailing at me. "It's definitely Ancient technology. If I can just…"

""Ancient', maybe," Lorne mutters. "Old, yes. Old crumbling rocks. Ow!" Beckett is probing his leg.

"Ancient technology? Where?" I turn to see Rodney McKay bound into the bay. He immediately begins to assault Soloman with questions.

"What's going on?" Sheppard enters the bay, Teyla at his heels. Both are dressed in their workout clothes. I raise my eyebrows. Apparently this morning's sparring session wasn't enough.

"This is a medical emergency, not a party," Carson snaps. "Now please get out of my way Colonel, and let me bring my patient through."

John and Teyla step aside and in a flurry of white, Beckett, the medical team, and the gurney are through the door. John turns to the nearest marine with a questioning glance. "Anders?"

"Major Lorne fell through the floor at the excavation site sir," Anders says. "Broke his leg. Hall- Mr. Halling," he amends, seeing Teyla, "said we should all return to Atlantis for the night."

Teyla frowns. "Was anyone else injured, Sergeant Anders?"

"No ma'am," Anders shakes his head.

"Elizabeth," Rodney bounces up beside me, hands in a flurry of motion. "Soloman is right, we've got to get back there. I have to see this for myself. If there's a power source…"

"A ZPM?" I ask, looking enquiringly at Soloman.

"No, not as such, at least not that has been found. Yet." Rodney answers for his colleague. "Which is exactly why I need to get there and the sooner the better."

I fold my arms. "Your team is scheduled to go to Orlandra tomorrow."

"Oh come on Elizabeth," Rodney rolls his eyes. "This is way more important than oranges."

"And coffee," I point out.

"Well, yes, there's that," McKay admits. "But the Daedalus is due back soon and Caldwell promised he'd stop at Starbucks."

"Doctor Weir," Teyla touches me lightly on the arm. She is still frowning. "Perhaps I should go along to the mainland and make certain that all is well."

I sigh. "I suppose I can handle the negotiations on Orlandra, with the information from your reports," I say, looking over at John.

Rodney sees my look. "Whoa, whoa," he says. "Sheppard's got to come with us. He's the only jumper pilot at the moment."

"Okay," John shrugs. "Teyla and I will go with Rodney, and you can take Ronon to Orlandra." He grins. "He can carry lots of oranges."

"Negotiation is not one of Ronon's strong points," Teyla says with a worried look at me.

"I'll have a word with him," John promises.

Teyla clears her throat and nods toward the bay door. Ronon has just come in and is leaning against the door frame watching us.

"What?" He asks as we all turn to stare at him.

"You almost missed the party, buddy," John walks over and claps a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, I'll fill you in."

xxxxxxxxx

I'm geared up and ready to go bright and early. I have on my brand new hiking boots and the black mesh jacket that I think makes me look more sophisticated than military. The pack on my back weighs a ton and has everything I could possibly need; water, powerbars, tablet, some small samples of Earth technology for trade.

Ronon is waiting for me by the gate. He's dressed up for this trip, abandoning the torn sweater for the leather vest and coat. He's empty-handed, but I try not to think about what weapons are probably concealed about his body.

"Good morning, Ronon," I greet him politely.

He grunts in response but gives me a respectful nod. He reaches out and tugs at the pack that is bending me forward at the waist. It slides off and he slings it easily over one shoulder.

"Colonel Sheppard told you the new plan?" I try again.

He shrugs. "Sheppard told me 'stay quiet, carry things and look fierce.' I think I can handle that." His lips quirk in a semi smile.

"Yes, I'm sure you can," I answer dryly.

We exit the gate into a small clearing surrounded by trees. The air is chilly and scented with pine. I rub my hands together and wish I'd brought gloves.

"Village is this way," Ronon says, and he starts off along a fairly well trodden dirt path. My pack bobs up and down lightly against his shoulder blade. I hurry to catch up to him while at the same time turning to admire the trees on both sides of me.

It's amazing - a regular Pacific Northwest style forest. Pines, cedars, redwoods, firs, all interspersed with scattered brush in between. Some of the trees are enormous and look gnarled enough to be hundreds of years old. Thousands even. I wonder if the forest was planted by the Ancients.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply, taking in the resin scent. As I open them, I see that Ronon has stopped and is waiting for me.

"Sorry," I call, "I was just enjoying the trees." I scramble along the path to where he is standing and studying me appraisingly. I feel the need to explain myself.

"There are no trees on Atlantis," I say. "There's water, lots of water, and I like water, but…"

"Trees are nice."

"Yes." I'm not sure if he really understands, or is just trying to shut me up. After all he has much experience off world with McKay. I change the subject.

"How far is the village?" I ask brightly.

"About three of what Sheppard calls 'clicks'", he answers.

I do the math in my head. A little under two miles. And at the moment it all seems to be downhill. I keep pace with Ronon while wondering why the Ancients placed a stargate on top of a hill in the middle of a forest.

The trail continues to twist and turn while heading downhill, steeply at times. As I stumble over yet another upraised tree root, I stifle a curse that would have made John proud.

I don't get out much. My feet are used to the smooth steel and stone of the corridors in Atlantis. Our floating city may be the size of Manhattan, but it has none of the potholes and broken sidewalks that city is rife with.

Perhaps this wasn't the best time to break in my new boots. I look at Ronon's. The well worn leather clings to and moves with his foot like a sock. He walks without a sound, whereas every step I take cracks another twig or pinecone. I know I'm going to have blisters later.

The trail finally levels out and the forest opens up a bit to show us small scattered farms in a rocky valley. A stream flows past, and the hillside is dotted with creatures that greatly resemble sheep. I rub my hands again and long for a sweater. Perhaps we can trade for some wool.

I realize that I've stopped walking and Ronon is waiting for me again. "Enjoying the animals?" he asks.

"Sorry," I say again. "It's just that there's..."

"No animals on Atlantis," he finishes solemnly.

"No." Unless you count some of the scientists.

"Pretty big fish though," Ronon offers.

"True." Huge fish, including the leviathan that rescued Rodney.

"Sheppard keeps saying we should all go fishing," he continues. "He's got these long thin sticks with huge amounts of string." He shakes his head doubtfully. "I've caught lots of fish, but I'm not sure how those sticks are supposed to help."

An image pops into my head of Ronon splashing about in the stream, catching fish with his bare hands and banging their heads against the rocks, sort of like Gollum in Lord of the Rings. Only way taller, hairier, and well, hotter.

"I'm sure you could teach John a thing or two," I say diplomatically. He grunts in response, continuing on toward the small cluster of huts in the distance. I take one last look at the contentedly grazing Pegasus sheep, and follow.

There's a narrow dirt main street of sorts, through small wooden houses with thatched roofs. At the end of the street is an open air market. People are selling birds and other animals, as well as food, clothing and pottery. The food stalls smell of roasting meat and fresh bread. I'm suddenly very hungry.

Ronon scans the crowd and the stalls. "I don't see the Southerners here yet," he says.

"Maybe we should mingle a bit," I say, eyeing the loaves of still steaming bread.

Ronon grins. He steers me to a cluster of wooden tables in the center of the market. I sit and he vanishes, returning a minute later with two bowls of a spicy smelling stew and huge hunks of bread.

"Food first," he says. "Then mingling."

The stew is filled with chinks of meat and root vegetables, and the bread tastes as good as it smells. Ronon uses his bread to scoop up his stew and when he's finished his bowl looks scrubbed clean.

A group of young people drift over and start talking to us. They recognize Ronon from the team's first visit. The girls are fascinated by my clothing. They are dressed mostly in wool and leather, and I wonder if maybe I should have borrowed something from Teyla. The thought of myself in one of her bare midriff shirts makes me blush.

"She likes your _birkas_," Ronon is telling them, and I see a teasing glint in his eyes. One of the girls giggles.

"Birkas," I repeat, trying to roll the r lightly on my tongue as Ronon does, and end up sounding more like Dr Beckett. "Are those the animals that look like sheep? Or are you talking about their clothing?" I indicate one of the sweaters I've been admiring.

"Birkas are animals," Ronon says. "They are common on several worlds. I don't know sheep."

"You've seen them on the pictures on Dr Beckett's calendar," I explain, "There are many in- where he comes from," I amend quickly.

"Ah," Ronon nods, "yes, very similar." His lips quirk suddenly as if he is trying not to laugh.

I raise my eyebrows questioningly. He shakes his head.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing," he mumbles. "I just understood a joke Sheppard made the other day."

I roll my eyes. "Wonderful," I tell him. I turn back to our new acquaintances. "Yes, your birkas are quite lovely. Are these garments made from their wool? Or hair," I correct when I get a blank look.

"Yes," the woman closest to me replies. "They are for trade at the other end of the market." She smiles, flashing a mouth almost full of white teeth. "Do you wish to see them?"

"I would. But we are really here to trade for other things," I glance over at Ronon, who has recovered from his introduction to the world of sheep jokes. He leans forward, resting his arms on the table.

"We were hoping to meet some traders from the southern continent," he says. "The people that bring the fruits to trade. Do you know when they will be here?"

The young men exchange glances, and the women shy away nervously. Ronon looks over at me.

"We meant no offense," I say quickly. "I'd love to see some of your garments too."

"Perhaps later," the woman who was speaking to me murmurs, and they hurry away.

I look back at Ronon. "Okay," I say, "what was that?"

He frowns. "Something's not right."

"No," I agree, "Your reports said that the last time they were eager to show you what would be here for trade from the south."

"They were," he says. "Had McKay running for the hills."

I smile at that. Ronon looks over to where the young men have vanished – a small thatched hut that has the look of a country pub.

"You want me to go in there?" he asks. "See what I can find out?"

"Okay," I say. "I'll look around the rest of the market. And Ronon," he looks back toward me. "Be discreet."

He shrugs. "Okay."

He follows the young men into the hut, ducking under the low doorway to avoid hitting his head. I get up slowly and stroll toward the other end of the market, trying to look casual. Much as I hate to admit it, I blend in less well than Ronon, with my Earth clothing.

I stop to admire some candles and pottery, and then reach the stall that has the sweaters. I finger a few. The wool is coarser than sheep's wool, but still soft to the touch. They've been dyed a variety of colors.

As I'm about to start my shopping list, I feel a touch on my shoulder. I jump, and then look up to see Ronon frowning down at me.

"We should leave," he says quietly. "Now."

"What?" His hand tightens on my shoulder. Now means now, apparently. I swallow and decide to trust his judgment. After all that's why I brought him along. "Okay."

We start walking along the main street toward the trail that will take us back to the gate. We've just passed the last of the huts when we hear a shout behind us.

"There they are! There are the spies!" It's one of the men who were with us before. He's with a large group of people, dressed alike in what appears to be some sort of uniform.

"Spies?" I look incredulously at Ronon, who is now scowling fiercely and reaching inside his coat. "No, wait," I tell him. He makes a sound that resembles a growl, but keeps his hand where it is.

"There must be some mistake," I call to the people approaching us. "We are traders from off world, that is all."

We are quickly surrounded by the men in uniform. They are holding large unwieldy weapons that resemble old Earth muskets.

"I don't think they believed you," Ronon grunts. He grabs me by the arm and pulls me firmly behind him. At the same time his other hand comes out of his coat holding his stunner ready to fire.

The circle closes in on us. Ronon fires his stunner three times in rapid succession. I duck instinctively, fully expecting the sensation of hot metal piercing my body. There is no way we can avoid being shot at this range.

Amazingly there is no sound of gunfire. I lift my head and see that three men are down. Three more are advancing on Ronon, swinging their muskets like baseball bats. For a second I wonder if they know their weapons are meant to be fired, or if they just have no ammunition for them. Then I decide that at this point I just don't care.

Ronon goes into full warrior mode, shooting and punching and kicking. I dance around behind him, trying to stay close while avoid becoming part of the fray. As more men drop into the dust, the others form up along the start of the gate trail, effectively blocking our escape.

The way is clear in the other direction however, behind the houses and fields, where the forest starts again. I edge that way, trying to signal to Ronon. He visibly shakes off the frenzy of battle and moves to join me. The men who are in formation raise their muskets.

Two of them fire. I feel something hot whiz past my cheek, and yelp. So they do have ammunition. The men drop to their knees to reload. Ronon stuns them, and grabs my hand.

And we run.

xxxxxxxxxxx

As we huddle under the pine branches Ronon fills me in on what he learned in the pub. "Things have changed here since our last visit," he says.

"Apparently," I say, trying to sound dry despite my chattering teeth. I hug my knees more tightly. "What's happened?"

"The north is at war with the south," he says.

I raise my eyebrows. "We've walked into the Civil War?"

Ronon frowns. "Doesn't seem to be very civil. They claim the southerners are attacking their trade ships as soon as they leave the southern port for home, and taking back all their goods as well as the money."

"So we've stumbled into 'Pirates of the Caribbean'," I mutter.

Ronon frowns again. "What?"

"Never mind." It's John and Rodney's job to teach him Earth pop culture. Apparently they've not progressed beyond football and Star Trek.

"Wait a minute," I drop my arms and lift my head. "I thought Teyla said traders weren't welcome in the south in the first place."

"Yeah," Ronon says. "Something about these people's story doesn't make sense."

I sigh. "And I suppose you said as much?"

Ronon has the grace to look sheepish. "I might have."

"And now they think we're working for the enemy. Lovely." I lower my head back down to my knees.

Ronon is silent. Then I hear the telltale tearing of tin foil. "Powerbar?" he asks awkwardly.

I look up and accept the peace offering he's holding out to me. Chocolate too. I am easily appeased. "What's done is done," I say practically, around a mouth full of cold chewy sugar.

Ronon nods. He picks up the radio and fiddles with it, managing several different styles of static. It's then that I notice the blood on his arm. I reach out and grab his wrist. "You're bleeding," I scold, as he tries to pull it back.

He looks down at his arm in surprise, twists it a bit to see the streak of congealing blood along his triceps toward his elbow. "It's just a scratch," he says dismissively.

"From what?" I look down at his coat covering my arm and find a matching hole. I feel my eyes widen. "A musket ball?" I ask, showing him the tear.

"One of those big clumsy bullets? Yeah, must have been." He fingers the tear appreciatively than snorts. "Those guys were worse shots than you."

Musket ball, hot, dirty metal; McKay like thoughts are flying through my mind. "At least let me clean it," I say, rummaging through the pack for some hand sanitizer and the first aid kit I know I packed. "Has Dr Beckett given you a tetanus shot?"

He shrugs. "He gives me lots of shots."

I squirt some hand sanitizer on a tissue and dab at the wound. As the blood comes off, I see that it really is little more than a scratch. Still, scratches can hurt, though Ronon shows no indication that the alcohol I'm using even stings. I dab on a little triple antibiotic ointment and a band-aid.

"Feel better?" Ronon asks as I sit back and admire my handiwork. Apparently our boy is picking up sarcasm.

"No. I'm wet, cold, sore and tired, and I want to go home." God, I sound like a two year old. Ronon eyes me warily, as if he's afraid I'm going to start crying. I wrap his coat tightly around me and lie down on the pine needles. "Wake me up if you hear anything," I order, and I close my eyes.

I wake to pitch black, curled in a ball on the cold ground with pine needles sticking into my back. I'm still wearing Ronon's coat. My damp clothing underneath it smells faintly of mildew.

I groan and roll over, pulling myself up stiffly to a sitting position. I feel like the ten thousand year old version of myself that we found in the stasis chamber.

A light shines suddenly in my face, and I raise my hand reflexively. I lower it to see that Ronon is still in the same position he was when I fell asleep. Cross-legged, with the pack and radio in front of him, his rather large gun is resting on his thigh and he's holding a small Mag-Lite.

"Where did you get that?" I mutter, blinking away the spots dancing in front of my eyes.

"One of the marines gave it to me," he says. "It's useful."

In a pitch black underbelly of a pine tree in a dense forest in the middle of the night, that's a bit of an understatement. The branches are too low to allow standing so I try to stretch from a sitting position and get the kinks out of my back.

"Nothing yet?" I ask, pointing to the radio.

Ronon frowns. "No. It's almost dawn."

"You should rest," I tell him.

He shakes his head.

"Oh come on," I say. "Do you mean to tell me that in seven years of running you never slept?"

He shrugs. "A few minutes here and there."

"So a few minutes then," I insist. "I'll watch the radio."

He shrugs again. "Okay, ten minutes."

"Whatever. Give me the flashlight," I say, "and your gun."

He raises his eyebrows.

"I've been practicing," I tell him, squaring my shoulders. He reaches toward me and opens the coat I'm wearing.

"Oh, do you want this back?" I ask, starting to pull it off.

"No." He stops me and reaches inside. He draws out a small nine millimeter sidearm from an inside pocket and hands it to me. I've been lying on it the whole time. No wonder I'm sore.

"Try not to shoot me this time," he says dryly, taking his stunner but leaving the flashlight and the pack. He crawls across the pine needles to the nearest of the tree trunks. Leaning back against the trunk he cross his legs at the ankles and folds his arms across his chest. He bends his neck so his hair falls forward across his face, and closes his eyes.

I'm left alone to guard the radio, and wonder what else is hidden in the coat. I switch off the flashlight and hold it in one hand with the handgun in the other as I contemplate various scenarios. Sheppard's team is probably still on the mainland, and Zelenka is absorbed in an experiment and has forgotten that it's nighttime, let alone that I'm off world. Or he's assumed we're spending the night. Or Kavanaugh has killed him and taken over the city. He'd welcome a chance to be rid of both myself and Ronon…

A faint light begins to creep through the branches, casting thin spidery shadows about. Morning has officially arrived. As if on cue, the radio bursts to life with a squawk of static.

A grainy voice penetrates the static. "Eliz…Ronon... copy?"

Ronon's head snaps up, and he rocks gracefully forward onto his knees. "That's Sheppard."

I snatch up the radio and press the button. "John! We hear you!"

A couple of unintelligible words follow, another burst of static and the radio goes silent.

Ronon takes the radio from me. "Sheppard, where are you?"

No response. We look at each other. "Are they here?" I ask slowly, "or just trying to communicate with us through the gate?"

Ronon shrugs. "Either way, the gate is where we need to be." He tosses the light into the pack and slings it on his shoulder. He pockets the radio and keeps his gun in hand. I hold tightly to the gun he gave me. Probably too tightly, and I'm about to shoot myself in the foot.

We crawl out from under the trees and stand up in the morning air. I stretch, and my back cracks so loudly I'm sure it can be heard for miles. The air is cold and misty, and there is a crisp white frost covering the ground. In other circumstances I would enjoy this, and be fantasizing about King Arthur or elves and leprechauns. In other circumstances I'd also be wearing a thick dry fleece and be holding a large mug of coffee.

"The last time I went camping," I tell Ronon, while watching my breath freeze. "I drove into town in the morning to fetch coffee and donuts."

Ronon raises his eyebrow, and I wait for another sarcastic comment from the star of "Survivor: Pegasus."

"I like donuts," he says instead. I remember then that the Daedalus brought back a shipment of frozen Krispy Kremes a couple months back, and that McKay had used Ronon to get himself to the front of the line.

We wax philosophical on the attributes of earth pastries as we slowly retrace our steps from the day before. We share the last of the powerbars, and Ronon finds a few clusters of edible berries.

As we near the edge of the tree line, Ronon holds me back. "We'll stay in the forest," he says. "If we keep to the edge and go around those fields, we'll be back to the gate." He grins apologetically. "Just take a bit longer."

I sigh. My feet are beyond blistered after yesterday, but Ronon is right. We continue on through the trees, occasionally catching sight of a stray birka that's gone grazing too far from the herd.

As the ground starts to slope upward, I know we're going in the right direction. Not that I doubted Ronon for a second, but I've been dreading this uphill stretch ever since we stepped through the gate yesterday. It's nearly midday as we climb the hill. My leg muscles are turning to Jell-O again, and my lungs are making noises that also sound bad coming from a car, but on the bright side I think my clothes are finally dry.

We reach the tree line and I can see the faint outline of the gate ahead. Ronon holds out an arm in caution, and I stay behind him, peeking around his arm as he assesses the situation.

Our friends with the muskets from yesterday have surrounded DHD and the steps leading from the gate. Their weapons are up and at the ready.

I tug at Ronon's sweater. He turns to me with an impatient look on his face, but bends so I can whisper to him. "Why are they still standing like that? John tried to contact us hours ago." I say, pushing one of his dreadlocks out of my face.

"Don't know," he whispers back. "Maybe he's tried again." He takes the radio from his pocket and looks at it doubtfully.

"Or they've come in a puddle jumper, cloaked." Wishful thinking, I know, but Ronon squats down and softly tries to activate the radio.

"Sheppard are you there?" He asks as quietly as he can. A burst of static answers and he quickly turns it back down and looks up at me, shaking his head.

I squat down beside him. "So what do we do now?"

He strokes his beard thoughtfully. "There's too many of them for even two of us. I could try to make a diversion, get them away from the gate long enough for you to dial."

"Okay," I'm ready for some action. "What will you do?"

"Dunno," he hands me the pack and radio. "I'll think of something. Wait here."

I crouch in the brush, heart pounding, as he disappears into the trees. Knowing Ronon, whatever he does it won't be subtle. I shove the radio into the pack, and get my GDO ready. As an afterthought I stuff the gun in the waistband of my pants. I hear McKay's voice in the back of my head saying "Elizabeth, that is SO unsafe." I ignore it.

There's a loud crash on the other side of the trees, and I jump to my feet, wondering if that is Ronon's diversion. A couple of the men guarding the gate run towards the trees to investigate, and I creep forward, hand on the hilt of my gun, waiting for my chance.

A cracking sound echoes in my ears, and there's a sharp pain in the back of my head. The forest dissolves in a haze of black.

xxxxxxxxxx

It's dark, and someone is groaning. I realize the someone is me, and I stop. I pry open my eyes. It's not dark. There's a window in front of me, and water. I'm home on Atlantis, and lying in bed with my worst headache since my last UN debate. Too bad I can't remember if this one was a debate or a party.

Then the world drops out from under me. With a soft creak, the bed dips and the window tilts toward the water, slowly, gracefully, almost touching it. My stomach lurches, and the room swings back up. For a moment instead of water I see clear blue sky.

Atlantis doesn't move.

I sit up, and crack my head sharply on the wooden beam just above my head. I catch myself just in time from tumbling off the edge of the narrow bunk. I balance precariously for a second, the room pitches again, and I slid somewhat less than gracefully down to the floor.

My bare feet land on rough, slanting floorboards. I walk carefully the short distance to the wall and stand on my toes to look out the window. Porthole, actually. There's nothing to be seen but rolling waves. I'm on a boat, and a pretty big one at that. I stick my head out and get a face full of seaspray for my trouble.

Stepping back, I push damp hair away from my face. The top of my head is sore where it made contact with the ceiling, but there's a spot even sorer at the back. I touch it gingerly. Now I remember being hit. I was in the woods, waiting for Ronon, wearing…

I look down. Ronon's coat and my uniform are gone, and I'm dressed in a shapeless, itchy dress that feels and looks like a burlap sack. Fortunately my underwear seems to be intact. Along with the coat and my clothes though, were my GDO, the gun, the pack. Everything is gone.

The ship pitches again, and I catch myself against the wall. A low groan directs my attention back to the bunk. There's a lower bunk, and on it is what appears at first glance to be a huge pile of rags and uncoiled rope. It's Ronon, lying face down.

I tentatively shake his shoulder. There's no response. He's been dressed in similar material – pants and a tunic that are obviously meant for someone smaller than him. The pants barely reach mid-calf. I have an irresistible urge to tickle his feet. Restraining myself, I shake his shoulder again.

He wakes with a snarl, rolling onto his side and reaching for my throat. I let out an unladylike yelp and jump back, grabbing the wall behind me. "Ronon," I say loudly, and watch nervously as his eyes slowly focus. He struggles to a sitting position. "Watch your head," I tell him and he ducks forward just in time.

Ronon looks much the worse for wear. Angry bruises cover his face and the part of his chest that the too small tunic reveals. There's an impressive lump next to his right eye, and dried blood matted into the start of one of his locks. Apparently he'd put up more of a fight than I did.

"Where are we?" he asks dully. The ship picks that moment to pitch again. Ronon lifts his head and his eyes widen as he sees the porthole and the water coming toward him.

"A boat," I tell him, as a wave smashes against the wall behind me for emphasis. The boat creaks in response. "In the middle of an ocean. I assume still on Orlandra..."

Ronon interrupts me with a string of muffled curses in a language I'm not familiar with. He staggers to his feet and next thing I know his head is out of the porthole and he's retching up what powerbars are left in his stomach.

He pulls his head in and leans it against the wall. His hands grip the edges of the porthole so tightly his knuckles are white. "I've never seen so much water," he gasps.

"Except on Atlantis," I correct him.

"Yeah," he swallows. Beneath the bruises his skin is looking decidedly green. "But Atlantis…"

"Doesn't move," I finish for him, as his head is outside again.

I sit cross-legged on the lower bunk, back pressed against the wall and head bent slightly to avoid the upper bunk. I can see the water from here, choppy with the occasional whitecap as we sail along.

The door to our cabin door is locked. A crude lock – one that Ronon most likely could break, if he were feeling better.

Ronon is lying, curled on his side, with his head in my lap. Probable concussion and seasickness are a nasty combination. There can't possibly be anything left in his stomach to come up, yet he's still sick.

My own stomach is starting to growl with hunger. I have no idea how long it's been since I've eaten. "How long do you think we were unconscious?" I ask softly.

"Dunno." He shifts his weight, angling his face back toward me. "There was no body of water near the gate. We'd have seen it the first time we came, from the jumper." He grimaces and curls himself tighter, holding his belly.

I touch his hair gently in sympathy. It's surprisingly soft and spongy. "Take slow deep breaths," I advise.

He takes a deep breath and blows out slowly. "We've lost the radio," he says. "And all of our weapons." He sounds more upset about the weapons than the radio.

"They found everything?" I ask. I've read John's reports, and know Ronon tends to have weapons stashed where searchers don't find them. I'm not sure I want to know where.

He plucks the ill fitting tunic in disgust. "They were very thorough."

"But the radio," I say, "Even if John and the others are looking for us, they'll have no idea where to start."

"We'll have to make our own way back to the gate," he closes his eyes and turns his head away.

"How are we going to do that?" I ask. "We don't even know where we are."

Ronon just groans in response.

The door to our cabin creaks open, and a woman enters. She's dressed in the same material that we are, only hers is slightly better fitting. Her dark hair is pulled tightly back from her head, and she's holding a jug and a basket. Peeking out of the basket is what looks to be a loaf of bread. As I stare at the basket hopefully, Ronon pushes himself to his feet and growls at her threateningly.

She stares back at him impassively. He'd probably be more frightening if he weren't wobbling back and forth. I rise and wrap my arm around his waist to steady him, my other hand gripping the top bunk.

The woman sets the basket and jug on the little shelf below the porthole. "Food," she says succinctly. Then she wrinkles her nose. "We will need to bath you before you see the captain." She looks pointedly at Ronon. "I will send someone."

She turns smoothly toward the door. Ronon makes a move to go after her, but I hold him back. It's a mark of how weak he is that I am able to. The door closes and I gently pull him back to the bunk and sit him down.

"Why did you do that?" he mutters.

"What were you going to do?" I ask. "Fight her? To what end? Do you think the two of us are going to overpower everyone on this ship? And even if we did hijack it, can we steer it back to whatever harbor is near the gate? I might be able to steer a rowboat if I could see where I was going, but I'm sorry to tell you that you aren't exactly first mate material at the moment."

He says nothing, but glowers at me.

"We have to talk to them, to the captain," I continue. "Convince him that we've done nothing wrong, and can be powerful allies if he returns us to our world."

"Talk," Ronon says. "All you earth people want to do is talk."

"It's what I do best," I tell him. I sit down on the bed next to him, looking at the food on the shelf. My stomach rumbles loudly.

Ronon groans. "Would you stop that?"

"Sorry, I'm hungry. I'm going to eat some of the bread."

"Eat it all," he lowers his head back into his hands.

I get up again and break off a hunk of the bread. I eat it standing up as I look out at the water. The bread is hard and stale but I'm starving so it tastes wonderful. A light spray brushes against my face. I'm starting to get my sea legs and only have to grab the wall occasionally.

I take the jug of water back to the bunk. The water has a metallic taste but it's wet. I touch Ronon's forehead. His skin is hot and he's not sweating.

"You need to drink," I say. "You're dehydrated."

"If I do it will just come back up," he tells me.

"All the same," I press the jug against his hand and he takes a reluctant sip.

"More." I keep pressing the water on him, and then try a piece of bread but he pushes it away.

The door opens again and two men enter this time. They both look pretty battered, and one is limping. He eyes Ronon warily, and I realize these must be the guys that grabbed us. I allow myself a smirk that they had such a difficult time with Ronon.

The limper walks toward us and Ronon looks up. He smirks too, as he notices the damage he inflicted. The man also seems to be missing a couple of teeth.

"You will come with us," the limper says.

Ronon looks at me, and I nod. He pushes himself to his feet, grabbing the upper bunk to steady himself. I move to his side to offer support. "It'll be better outside," I whisper to him. "In the fresh air."

He gives me a doubtful look, but takes my arm as we follow Limper and his partner out of the cabin. There's a short windy stair with a rope along the wall to hold and then we are up and out on deck.

The first thing Ronon does is stumble to the rail and vomit over the side. He straightens up, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and takes a deep breath of the sea air. I join him at the rail. "You're right," he tells me. "It's better."

The water is bright blue, and the air is warm. We've obviously come pretty far south. I lean over the edge and catch the salty spray on my face. Icy cold water cascades down my face and back. With a gasp and a yelp, I spin around to see Limper and his crony holding empty buckets and laughing at us. Ronon growls at them but doesn't move. Limper gestures to another man near the front of the boat who has just hauled up a bucket from the water. He trades the full bucket for Limper's empty one and we get doused again.

Once I stop shivering from the shock of the cold, the water feels good. I push back my hair and rub the grime off my face. Ronon looks much better too with the blood rinsed off of his face, and his dreads dripping. I try not to notice how tightly his wet clothes are clinging to him. As I look away, I surreptitiously cross my arms over my chest.

As soon as Limper and his friend have deemed us sufficiently doused, the woman returns. She gestures imperiously at us to follow her.

"Any chance we could get some dry clothes?" I ask with a polite smile.

She turns and regards us thoughtfully, her gaze lingering over the lower portion of Ronon's body. She smirks. "Those will dry well enough," she says. "The captain is waiting."

Ronon pales. "I don't want to go inside again," he whispers to me. The captain is not inside, however. He's at the wheel, perched on a high wooden chair which is bolted to the deck. The wheel is huge and looks exactly like the ones on the 16th and 17th century replica ships back home.

At our approach he hops off the chair and gestures to the woman to take his place. He's a small man, his head barely reaches Ronon's chest, but he's built of solid muscle. We stand before him, our clothes and Ronon's hair dripping into a growing puddle around our bare feet.

"Why have you kidnapped us?" I ask.

The captain folds his arms and looks up at me. "You are spies. By rights we should have killed you."

"We are not spies. We're peaceful explorers from another world," I tell him. "We came here only to trade."

The captain looks up at Ronon this time. "You allow your woman to speak for you?" he asks.

I start to protest and Ronon stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

"She's not my woman," he says. "But she speaks as well as I fight." He grins, showing all his teeth.

The captain eyes him, and then looks at the faces of Limper and the other goon who have trailed along behind us. He gives me an abrupt nod. "Very well. Speak."

I take a deep breath. "As I said, we come from another world. An Athosian friend had told us of the fruits that are grown on the southern continent here. A group of us came here several weeks ago – my friend here was among them," I nod towards Ronon.

"They were told the date that the traders from the south would be in the market near the stargate. We returned to trade. When we enquired in the market about the southern traders, we were accused of being southern spies and attacked. We escaped and were trying to return to the stargate when your," I eye Limper, "men attacked us and brought us here."

The captain is frowning now. "Southern spies? Then why were you part of the group waiting to ambush us at the ring of the ancestors?"

"We weren't with them, they were after us. We were trying to distract them so we could dial the gate – the ring- and return home." Then his words sink in. "Those men were preparing to ambush you? Then you are…"

"Southern," the captain finishes.

Ronon and I look at each other. "Then you thought we were…"

"Northern spies."

"Why does everybody think we're spies?" Ronon mutters.

"I believe them," the woman says abruptly, turning from the wheel.

"Hush, woman," the captain growls. "And mind the wheel."

"We won't blow off course with no wind," she says with a derisive snort. She hops down from the chair and faces the captain with her arms folded. "What spies would make no effort to blend in, Regat?" she asks. "The clothing they wore, the weapons they carried were not of this world. This one," she gestures toward Ronon, who is holding onto a mast to maintain his balance, "has clearly never been on a boat."

"If this is so obvious, Mardeana," the captain says angrily, "it's a pity you did not think to tell us this before we cast off."

"They were not given over to my charge until we were well underway," she shoots back.

Limper comes forward and pushes his way between them. "So are they spies or not?" he demands. They stop arguing and both turn to glare at him.

I'm happy to stand back and let Mardeana do my arguing for me. Ronon, however looks as frustrated as Limper.

"Not," Mardeana says finally. Captain Regat harrumphs, and pushes past her to climb back up to the wheel.

"So what do we do with them then?" Limper asks.

I step forward. "How about taking us back to the stargate?" I say brightly.

"And giving us back our stuff," Ronon adds.

"We couldn't take you back to the ring even if we wanted to," Mardeana tells us. "We've come too far, and would not have enough food and water to go back and then return home."

"What about our stuff?" Ronon asks. One track mind, our boy. Though, I wouldn't mind having my hands on the radio, or my clothes.

"Everything we took from you is gone," Mardeana says. She tosses her head in the direction of the railing and the water beyond. Ronon clenches his fists and I put a hand on his arm to hold him back.

"What happens now?" I ask.

"There is no where for you to go," Mardeana gestures at the water again. "And as you will be eating our food and drinking our water, you will need to make yourselves useful."

"Useful?" I repeat doubtfully. I could maybe be useful on a forty foot catamaran like the one my uncle owned, but on a ship like this, that belongs in Plymouth in the 1600's?

Mardeana grins. "I'm sure we can find something for you to do," she says, not looking at me. She takes a step forward and wraps her fingers around Ronon's upper arm. She squeezes and raises her eyebrows suggestively.

With a look not unlike that of the birkas that ran from us, Ronon pulls away and steps quickly behind me. Mardeana laughs. She directs us to Limper's charge, and walks away tossing her head.

Ronon presses up against me. "What should we do now?' he whispers in my ear.

"Whatever they tell us, for now," I whisper back. "Ronon," I grab his wrist as he starts to follow Limper. "Be patient. I don't believe that they really threw our things overboard. They're smart enough to recognize value."

His eyes widen slightly and he nods.

Hours later my back aches and my hands are raw and sore from peeling piles of ugly root vegetables in the ship's cramped galley to make some sort of stew. Cooking has never been my strong point. Simon was the chef; I was the champion of Chinese takeout on speed dial.

Fortunately the food the cook sets me to prepare requires only that I peel it, chop it and throw it into a pot. The cook tosses in some spices and cooks the stew with seawater to give it a salty flavor.

There are upsides to what the marines call KP duty – I get to eat while I work, and I find one of Ronon's knives stashed among the other kitchen utensils. I stuff it into a chunk of bread, grab a water flask and a bowl of stew, and go in search of my teammate.

It's getting dark, and I make my way carefully to our cabin, which I find empty. Of course, enclosed space, rocking ship, he wouldn't come back here unless forced to. I find him in the bow of the ship, sitting cross-legged on the deck and looking out at the water, which is rapidly becoming too dark to see.

I sit next to him and spread food I brought out on the boards in front of him. "Be careful with the bread," I caution him. He gives me a puzzled look and breaks the bread carefully in half. A smile crosses his face, a flash of white teeth as he finds the knife. He raises his hands to his hair, and when he brings them down the knife is gone. Apparently John's reports have not been exaggerated.

"You were right," he says happily.

He eats the bread and stew and I ask about his day. Turns out that Limper, whose real name is Zambone, is not really a bad sort. He gave Ronon some spicy candy that settled his stomach, and showed him what to do about the ship. He spent the day hoisting and lowering sails, which he says was easy, and dodging Mardeana, which was not so easy.

"Maybe we should have let them think you were my woman," he says.

"Do you really think that would have made a difference?" I ask dryly.

"No," he admits. "She…" he grimaces and then waggles his eyebrows in a fair impression of Mardeana.

"Flirts?" I suggest.

"Yes. A lot. And in front of the captain, who is her man, or so Zambone says."

"Really?" I laugh. "Then I guess Captain Regat allows his woman to speak for him."

"Looks like," Ronon grins at me and I grin back.

As he finishes his dinner I relax and look up at the clear night sky. Aside from the lookout in the crow's nest, and whoever is at the wheel far behind us, we are alone on the deck. The only sound is the lapping of the water against the ship. The stars are bright, brighter even then on Atlantis, which for all its isolation does give off the faint glow of a city.

"I wonder which star is Atlantis' sun." I muse out loud.

"That one," Ronon points toward the horizon straight ahead. "With the three brighter ones around it."

I squint and try to isolate the star he's pointing to. "How do you know that?"

"McKay showed me once, when we were camped for the night." He takes a swig of water. "I like to look at the stars," he continues quietly. "When I was running from the wraith, if I could see the stars it meant I was still free."

"And now?" I ask softly.

He shrugs. "Same thing. You can see lots of stars from Atlantis."

A cool breeze is blowing off the water, and now that I'm away from the heat of the galley, I'm chilly. I move closer to Ronon. He's warm and smells of salt and ginger. I lean against his chest, and he slides his arm comfortably around my shoulders. We sit quietly and watch the stars.

The next morning the sky is an overcast grey. My bones and muscles ache from falling sleep on the cold deck boards. I limp into the galley to start my duties, really, really missing my cozy office on Atlantis.

The cook greets me with a knowing wink and hands me a tin mug of what looks like coffee. On closer inspection I realize this must be brewed from the kave beans for which we had come all this way to trade. I've not tried them myself, but McKay raved about them and Carson said they were safe, so I take a sip. It's quite bitter, with a sharp metallic taste to boot, but after even the small sip I feel rejuvenated, and so I take a large gulp of the lukewarm stuff.

My heart starts to pound and by the time the mug is finished I'm bouncing all over the galley peeling vegetables like the Energizer Bunny on steroids. A bushel or two of these beans, and our people against the wraith is not going to be a fair fight.

There's a sudden shout from above decks, and the ship lurches beneath my feet. I go sliding along w/ pots and vegetable peels across the floor and slam into the wall. The side of the ship lists heavily, the open porthole almost touching the water. Then it rights itself and I slide back down the wall to the floor, landing firmly on my backside.

I wipe slimy veggie skins off my face and out of my hair, and scramble to my feet. The ship is rocking wildly, and the cook has already run up and out. I tighten the rope I've tied around my waist to control the shapeless dress, and follow.

As I start to climb to the deck, I hear the unmistakable sound of gunfire. I climb faster and emerge into chaos. The air is thick with smoke, shouts and thunderous bursts. Grabbing the mast to steady myself I can just make out the shape of another ship through the smoke.

I try to locate Ronon among the men fighting with muskets and swords at the rail, he's at least a foot taller than everyone else on this ship, but I can't see him. I do see Mardeana, with her skirts tied up above her knees, heading into the fray, and I run after her and grab her shoulder.

"Our weapons," I shout at her as she turns to snarl at me. "Give them to me!"

She tries to pull away from me, and I shake her in exasperation. "I know you didn't get rid of them. Give them to me and let us help you fight!"

There's a scream and the sound of something hitting the water. Mardeana blanches, and gives me a sharp nod. I let her go and she disappears below deck.

I look again for Ronon, and instead see men from the other ship swinging over on ropes to ours. Others on the opposite deck are rolling a big black object toward the edge – a cannon.

"Damn," I whisper, shaking visions of Wiley Coyote out of my head.

Mardeana reappears at my side, holding a cloth bundle. I unwrap it and find Ronon's blaster, the nine millimeter he gave me, and a dozen or so assorted knives. I grab the Beretta and blaster, and leave the cutlery for Ronon to claim later. I still can't see him, so I shove the Beretta into my rope belt and take the blaster with two hands. I don't know which knobs on the side are for what, or the setting that Ronon last used, but when it comes to falling from a ship into the ocean I figure there's not much difference between stun and kill.

I get as close as I can to the rail, and attempt to aim at the people with the cannon. I fire. There's a flash and couple of splashes. Exhilarated, I fire again.

Amid the smoke of the other fighters' muskets, Ronon materializes, hand out for his blaster. I give it to him, feeling a bit like a child who was caught playing with something she shouldn't. He gives me a feral grin, and vanishes back into the smoke.

Now that Ronon is properly armed, I try to stay out of the way and let him and the other fighters do what they do best.

Smoke and shouts are thick in the air. The ship rocks, bodies splash. Others are still swinging over to our ship and being dispatched quickly by the southerners, Mardeana among them, armed with a short sword.

From the other side of the deck I can see Ronon's blaster flash. I keep waiting to hear the sound of a cannon firing, but it never comes.

Cook grabs me by the arm and shouts something about ammunition. I follow him below deck, figuring fetch and carry I can do. We make our way carefully past the galley to the hold where the ammunition and the cargo are stored.

A man steps out in front of us. It takes a moment for it to register that this man is not one of the people from this ship – he's a northerner. In that moment, before I can shout a warning to Cook, the man swings the short sword he's holding neatly through Cook's neck. Blood sprays everywhere, over me, the floor, the northerner, and Cook falls heavily to the floor, eyes open and staring.

The northerner flips his bloody sword around in his hand and turns to me. I realize numbly that he's going to kill me too, and I step back, fumbling with the gun in my belt. He swings, and I close my eyes and fire.

There's a sound of metal clattering on wood and I open my eyes to see the man crumpled on the floor before me. He's not dead, but gasping in pain and reaching for the sword. I've shot too low again, wounding him in the stomach.

I take a deep breath, kick the sword away and lean down low. I hold the gun close enough that even I can't miss and fire several more times until the man is not only dead, but unrecognizable.

I'm covered with smelly, sticky blood, and Cook and his murderer are both lying dead at my feet. Something inside me breaks. I throw the gun away as hard as I can and sink down to the floor. I'm a diplomat, not a killer. At least I used to be. I drop my head down to my knees and start to sob.

I stay there crying for hours it seems. I know I should get up, get the ammunition and go back on deck, but whenever I lift my head I see blood and it sets me off again. My body feels like a limp rag.

A floor board creaks behind me, and before I can reach for the gun I kicked away a hand claps down on my shoulder. I spin around ready to defend myself by kicking and screaming at least, and look into Ronon's eyes. He grabs my wrist as I'm about to hit him. Taking in the scene before him, he looks back at me, brow wrinkled in confusion.

"What happened?" he asks.

"We came down to get some supplies." I pull my arm free and wave in the general direction of Cook. "He was waiting for us," I wave again this time in the general direction of the other body. "And he killed Cook. So I shot him."

"You shot him," he repeats, looking doubtfully at the bullet riddled body.

"Yes. I think I still need some work on my aim," I inform him solemnly. The tears well up again and I fling my arms around his neck and start to sob into his shoulder. He closes his arms around my back and holds me in a surprisingly gentle way.

"Ronon, where did you go?" I hear Mardeana calling from the stairs. "There you are; we need your help on deck." Her voice dies away suddenly, and I lift my head from Ronon's shoulder to see her staring at me. Then she sees the bodies beyond us and her eyes widen.

"Elizabeth killed the northerner," Ronon tells her gravely and she looks back at me with an uncertain frown. One of Ronon's dreadlocks is stuck to my cheek, and I wipe it away with as much dignity as I can muster while fighting the sudden urge to laugh hysterically.

"I will need some help with them," Ronon says, indicating the bodies. Mardeana nods and disappears back up the stairs.

I try to wipe some of the blood off my cheeks, but it's congealed and mixed with my tears to form a hopelessly sticky mess. "I'm sorry," I tell Ronon. "I was supposed to bring up more ammunition ages ago."

Ronon shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. The battle's over. We left the other ship far behind, 'dead in the water' Zambone said." He grins, a flash of white teeth in a filthy blood and gunpowder streaked face.

I lose my battle for composure and burst out laughing. Ronon's grin widens, and then falters worriedly as I laugh harder. He hugs me, loosely at first then tightly trying to calm me.

Once I stop laughing, straighten up, and again try to muster dignity, Ronon separates from me and picks up Cook. He cradles him gently, and carries him up the stairs. I follow, leaving the northerner for the sailor Mardeana has sent down.

On deck is controlled chaos. The smoke is almost cleared. Bodies still on deck are being consigned to the waves, and other men are hauling up buckets of water to wash the deck.

Captain Regat is at the rail, muttering a few respectful words over each body before it goes overboard. Ronon carries Cook to him and waits quietly for his turn. The prayer is said and Cook's body slides over the rail and down into the depths of the sea with the others, northerner and southerner alike. Everyone is equal in death.

Once his task is accomplished, Ronon joins the others at the bow. Taking a break from scrubbing the decks, they are dumping buckets of water over each other and scrubbing themselves. When we were doused the other day it was cold and unpleasant, today I long to just dive into the clear blue water and swim until I'm clean. I settle instead for waiting my turn with the bucket.

As the dust and grime of battle are washed away it becomes clearer who is injured and who is not. With the blood washed from my hands and face, I approach Mardeana.

"There were first aid supplies in my bag," I tell her. "There's not point in pretending any longer that you threw them overboard."

She bites her lip, looks around at the injured men and nods in defeat. She disappears below deck and returns with my pack and Ronon's coat. No sign of my clothes, but I'm resigned at this point to the shapeless dress.

Ronon is instantly at my shoulder, his hair dripping onto the pack. I grab the radio first, hold it away from wet dreadlocks, and hope that by some miracle someone is searching for us right at this moment. We could be home in no time, and send Beckett to patch up the injured men.

I turn the knob on the side of the radio, and realize with a sinking feeling that the radio is already on.

"What?" Ronon asks, seeing my face.

"It's been on the whole time," I tell him. "The battery's dead."

"It made some noises at first," Mardeana offers awkwardly. Ronon growls at her in response, and she moves back.

"Never mind," I tell him. "There's nothing we can do about it now." I look down at his leg, and see fresh blood. "Take off your pants," I order.

"What?" he yelps, scrambling back with a glare at Mardeana, who's suddenly looking much less awkward.

"You're hurt," I say.

"I'm fine," he protests.

I roll my eyes. "Knife, please," I say to Mardeana. She grins and darts away, returning seconds later with another of Ronon's knives.

The ownership of the knife does not escape Ronon's attention. He reaches for it indignantly, but I hold on to it firmly. "Be still," I tell him, and start to slice away his pants leg just above the blood.

An angry gash runs from mid-thigh down to his right knee, still oozing blood whenever he moves. It needs stitches but I don't have stitches and even if I did I wouldn't know what to do with them. I've never even successfully sewn on a button.

I stare at the congealing blood, trying to think of what to clean it with. And quickly before Ronon looses patience and runs off. Carson would clean the wound with saline. Saline is salt water, right? "Get me some water from the bucket, please," I say to Mardeana, waving in the general direction of the bathing sailors.

She obeys again and I douse Ronon's wound with the water. He grits his teeth, refusing to give me the satisfaction of letting me know it stings. I pat it dry with the few gauze pads the first aid kit contains, and smear triple antibiotic ointment everywhere. The kit has some butterfly strips, and I start to place these, but Ronon grabs my wrist. "Enough," he says. "Just cover it with something."

"Clean cloth?" I ask Mardeana, wondering how far I can push this fetch and carry thing. She brings some clothes of the same coarse cloth that we are wearing, but that looks reasonably clean. I tear a couple strips and tie it around Ronon's leg. He limps off looking rather comical with his cropped and extra cropped pants.

Mardeana has been watching me carefully and she moves on to treat the nearest wounded man in the same fashion I treated Ronon. I work with her and soon we have everyone's injuries cleaned and bound. I dispense ibuprofen and Tylenol to anyone who admits to being in pain, which leaves me with most of it.

For what it's worth, no one seems to be too seriously injured; the critical ones died before the battle ended. With the primitive environment and no antibiotics, infection could set in quickly, but my exhausted self refuses to think about that.

Zambone and Ronon disappear, and return with two huge barrels. There's a cheer from the rest of the men, and I look at Mardeana questioningly. She sighs. "It was supposed to be for trade," she says. "But I suppose they deserve it."

"Deserve what?" I ask. But my question is answered when Zambone pops a cork out of the side of the first barrel and the men begin to line up with cups. Some sort of alcohol then. I move forward cautiously.

Ronon greets me with a huge grin, and pushes a mug at me, sloshing some of it onto my hand. My eyes are watering already. This is not a typical after work margarita. I take a careful sip, and immediately a fit of coughing tries to clear the fire from my throat.

Ronon pounds my back, and when I can breathe again clinks his mug against mine. He drinks down at least half of it in one gulp. I take another sip and don't cough quite so hard this time.

I wander off and find a quiet place on the side of the ship, far enough away from the revelers that no one will trip over me. I sit by the rail, nurse my drink and watch the sunset. The alcohol I'm consuming gives me a renewed appreciation for the fiery splashes of color across the sky. I long for my peaceful balcony on Atlantis, and my bed where I could curl up and sleep for at least a week.

The noise behind me has died down to a low hum, and the sky is growing darker. The sea breeze is cool on my face, and the drink warm in my belly. My head starts to nod.

I feel something brush my shoulder, and twist to see Ronon behind me. "Hey," I call up softly to him. He kneels down next to me, a little unsteadily, and wincing when his weight lands on his bad leg. He catches himself on the rail, and blinks at me.

I try to get up on my knees to be even with him, or at least as even as I can be. My legs are asleep and I wobble, the sudden movement also making me dizzy. Ronon catches me clumsily, and I lean against his chest. His breath on my cheek is warm and about two hundred proof. "How much have you had, anyway?" I ask him.

"A lot more than you," he answers, his voice slightly slurred.

"Yeah I figured." I start to giggle. "Don't tell the others," I tell him, "what a lightweight I am."

"I won't," he promises solemnly.

"Ronon!"

I lift my head, and over his shoulder see Mardeana weaving unsteadily toward us. Ronon groans.

"Go away," I call out to her, wrapping my arms protectively around Ronon's neck. "And leave us alone!"

Mardeana stops in her tracks, and I look into Ronon's eyes with a self-satisfied smile. He smiles back at me. His eyes are meltingly warm, and I reach up to push his hair back from his face.

Next thing I know, I'm kissing him. I catch him by surprise, but pretty soon he's kissing me back, with the hunger of a man who hasn't been kissed in a very long time.

xxxxxxxxxx

I wake on my bunk, catching myself just before I roll out of it. My head pounds as I sit up, and it feels like I've got a whole bale of cotton in my mouth. Something important happened yesterday. I remember in pieces the sea battle, Cook's death, treating the injured… Oh my God, I kissed Ronon.

What else did I do? I look around frantically, but my clothing seems to be intact, and the fact that I'm alone in the cabin is a good sign.

I stumble to my feet, banging my head only enough to briefly shift the focal point of pain to the back rather than the front. The sun shining in through the porthole is way too bright and cheery. I shade my eyes and make my way carefully out into the hallway.

We've lost the person that's been preparing our meals, and since as of yesterday I was chief potato peeler, I suppose that puts me in charge of the galley. I head there. As I enter the small kitchen I notice two things. The shutters have been closed to bare cracks for minimal light, and I smell kave. Someone's beaten me there.

Mardeana turns around from the stove and gives me a wan smile.

"You look like I feel," I offer awkwardly.

She grimaces. "You too." She gestures toward the pot of kave bubbling on the stove. "I don't think anyone will have much of a stomach this morning, so I just started this and got out some bread."

I start to nod, regret it and say, "good thinking." I pour myself a cup, and drink it, black and scalding. The pounding in my head fades to a dull roar. I pour and second cup, and one for Ronon.

Mardeana brushes against me. "You know," she says matter of factly. "If you'd told me he was yours, I'd have left him alone in the first place."

I feel my face turn beet red. There's so sense in protesting, she'll never believe me. Hell, probably half of the ship saw me kiss him. "Sorry," I say weakly. I grab a hunk of bread and make my escape to the deck.

Ronon is coiling ropes with Zambone and some of the others, all of them working in slow motion. Zambone sees me coming first, and gives Ronon a nudge and a wink. One of the other men gives a low whistle. Ronon's face turns red. Probably as red as mine.

I offer Ronon the kave, and he sips it gravely. I study him for a moment. I know I need to talk to him, to explain myself. Once I figure myself out that is. Now is not the time or the place. Ronon looks at me questioningly, and I quickly offer him the bread. He shakes his head, and I turn to go.

Before I can move, he grabs my wrist. I look back at him, and he opens him mouth to say something, then closes it. Slowly, he releases me. I sigh. "Look, Ronon," I start.

A shout from the bow interrupts me. Not again. Instinctively I grab for the hand that just let go of me. "Another ship?" I ask nervously.

Zambone turns around and gives us both a big grin. "Not a ship," he says. "Land! We're home!"

xxxxxxxxxxx

Mardeana and I face each other, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire. She has the permission of the elders to speak for her people, and I of course speak for mine.

I wiggle my toes, reveling in the feel of warm sand beneath me. Cool air on my face and clean clothes on my body – I never thought such simple things could thrill me. The fire and flickering torchlight offset the soon setting sun. A feast is prepared and waiting, but negotiations come first.

While Mardeana and I prepare to form an alliance between our peoples, Ronon is forming alliances of his own. Dressed in loosely flowing and brightly colored tunic and pants, he's sitting on the beach surrounded by nearly every child in the village.

The awestruck boys are shyly teaching him a game that involves coconuts and sticks of driftwood. The girls are giggling and decorating his dreadlocks with flowers. He looks like a great floral teddy bear.

I stifle a smile, remembering our landing. Ronon had stumbled out of the rowboat sent to fetch us, splashed to shore, and dropped down on his knees. For a second I thought he was going to kiss the ground. Instead he grabbed fistfuls of sand, and turned to me with an anxious frown.

"The ground is moving," he said. I did my best to keep a straight face and assure him that the feeling would pass.

The crew, and ourselves as well, were greeted as heroes. We were whisked off to warm springs to wash – I'd never been so happy so see a bar of soap – and given new clothes to wear.

I run my hands along my legs, smoothing the bright linen skirt. Mardeana gives me a nod, indicating that I should begin.

"We will not supply you with weapons," I tell her, "to fight the others on your world. We cannot be involved in your war." She raises an eyebrow. "More than we have been involved already," I amend, glancing over at Ronon and the children.

"So," Mardeana inclines her head. "What do you offer us?"

"Medical supplies," I answer. "Fertilizers to help your crops grow, ways to purify water for drinking."

"And you ask of us?"

"To return us to the ring," I answer promptly, "And we would like to trade for you fruits and vegetables, and come here to trade with you directly." At least we won't go home empty handed after all.

"I will take your proposal to the elders," Mardeana says formally, rising.

I rise too. A commotion has started on the other side of the feast tent, voices raised in argument. Mardeana frowns and heads toward the disturbance. I start to follow and felly a light touch on my arm. Ronon is standing beside me, surrounded by his gaggle of followers.

"What's going on?" he asks in a low voice.

I nod toward Mardeana on the other side of the fire. "I think we're about to find out."

Two men approach the fire, dragging a third struggling man between them. "We found him wandering in the woods," one of the southern men says, panting slightly. "He's not one of us – he must be a northern spy."

"What is it with these people and spies," I mutter to Ronon who nods in agreement. Then my eyes widen as the man is brought into the brightness of the fire light and I see his face. "Rodney?"

Mardeana turns to me. "You know him?" she demands.

"He's one of my people," I tell her. But what he's doing here, I haven't a clue. "He must be looking for us."

Mardeana nods at the men and they release their prisoner.

Rodney McKay shakes free of them, straightens his rumpled jacket, and stares at the scene in front of him. "Oh, nice," he says. "We've been searching day and night, worried out of our minds, and here you two have been on a cruise to a tropical island."

Ronon and I look at each other and I burst out laughing. "Hi to you too, Rodney," I say. Ronon steps forward and pounds him on the back hard enough to make him stumble and cough.

"McKay," he says with a huge grin.

"Easy big guy," Rodney steps back and looks up at his team mate. "Nice…" his hand makes a twirly motion beside his own hair. "Flowers," he finishes.

Ronon flushes slightly but keeps his head held high, especially as his adoring fans creep closer to see what the fuss is about. McKay groans when he sees the kids, and steps further back.

"Rodney," I say, "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but what are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," he replies. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Well not the most obvious place to start."

Rodney rolls his eyes. "We found no trace of you in the village near the gate," he says. "Except for a couple of veiled references to the southern continent before we were chased away. At gunpoint, I might add. So we cloaked the jumpers and spread out to search. It would have helped if you'd answered your radio." He fixes both of us with a stern glare.

"Battery's dead," I tell him. "Sorry."

"Why did you leave the jumper?" Ronon asks. "You could have landed here on the beach." He gestures to the wide open strip of sand behind us.

"Had some, er, technical difficulties," Rodney says, now not meeting our eyes.

"You crashed the jumper?"

Rodney winces. "Executed a slightly involuntary landing."

It's Ronon's turn to roll his eyes. "I can't believe Sheppard let you fly."

"Well Beckett wasn't available," Rodney shoots back. "Not that he would have done any better searching deepest Brazil back there. Anyway, I found you didn't I?"

"Yes," I agree happily, "you did."

"And you are most welcome," adds Mardeana, who has been watching our exchange with interest. She gives Rodney a very warm smile, making him blush. She gestures toward the tables and roasting pit behind us, where enticing smells are wafting toward us. "The feast awaits."

Rodney's blush fades and I can almost see his ears perk up. "Feast?"

"Feast." Ronon nods, clapping Rodney on the back again. They turn as one toward the food.

"Rodney," I hurry to catch up to them. "Speaking of radios, shouldn't you be radioing John to let him know you found us?"

"I sent them a mayday before I landed. He's got the location and should be here in," he glances at his watch, "soon enough. We might as well eat."

The food is piled high in platters over a long table under a brightly colored canopy. Rodney grabs a huge skewer of meat, goes to bite into it and stops, frowning. He sniffs it. "This smells like citrus. Do you think they used citrus?"

Ronon takes the skewer from Rodney's hand and takes a large bite. "Yup," he says around a mouthful of meat. He finishes the rest and licks his fingers while Rodney glares at him.

"What, are you my personal taster now?"

Ronon shrugs. "Sure. What else do you want me to try?"

I tag along behind the boys, enjoying their banter, until, right on schedule, a cloud of dust kicks up on the beach.

xxxxxxxxx

The debriefing, once everyone is cleared medically to Carson's satisfaction, is long and intense. I escape gratefully at the end and walk down the hall rolling my shoulder and stretching my neck. All the physical exercise I've had the last few days has ruined me for riding a desk, as the military types would say.

My uniform feels good, though chafes a bit on the sunburn on my shoulders. And even though we've been back more than a full day, Atlantis is rocking slightly beneath my feet.

I'm searching for Ronon. After everything that happened on Orlandra we need to talk. Or rather, I need to talk. He'll just stand there and listen with that half amused half quizzical look on his face as he usually does when I talk to him.

I find him at the end of the West Pier, watching the sunset. The sun has just dipped under the water on the far horizon, leaving the sky and water a deep purple, with scattered white stars appearing here and there. The orange glow of Atlantis' city lights stretches out on to the pier, falling just a few feet short of where Ronon is standing.

"Hey," I call from the doorway.

"Hey," he answers back, turning toward me and stepping into the light. He stands quietly and watches me as I move out onto the pier to join him. He's been running, his hair is tied back and a small towel is draped around his neck. In the soft light, the skin on his face and bare arms glistens with sweat. The bruising on his face has faded to a streaky yellow, and he's bearing most of his weight on his left leg, so the right one must still be sore.

I wonder what Carson would think about his running on it. Myself, I've done enough running to last me the rest of my life. Kate Heightmeyer's been after me to take up yoga, and I might, but running, never.

I realize I've been staring, and feel the heat rise to my face. Ronon says nothing, just grins at me, and folds his arms loosely across his chest.

Searching for something to say, I reach out and touch the wraith bone dangling from his neck. "Was this from the first wraith you killed?"

He nods solemnly, and then a glint of amusement enters his eyes. "We could have made one for you, from that northern pirate you killed," he offers.

I jerk my hand away and step back, shuddering with revulsion at the thought. For a moment I'm back in that smelly, smoky hold.

"Sorry," the amusement fades as Ronon realizes he's said exactly the wrong thing. He gazes at me anxiously.

I drag my mind back to the present and take a deep breath. "Let's just say I prefer my jewelry to be gold or silver," I say with a semi-forced smile.

"Okay." He pulls the towel from his neck and starts to walk past me. "I should go shower."

"Ronon, wait." I grasp his arm just tightly enough to stop him. "I wanted to talk to you. About what happened on the ship."

He stops and waits, watching me.

"I wanted to apologize," I continue. "For what I did."

The amusement is flickering back into Ronon's brown eyes, and I know my face is fast becoming as red as my shirt.

"For cutting up my trousers?" he asks. "Or for burning the breakfast?"

"No." I tighten my hand on his arm in exasperation. "You weren't nearly as drunk as me," I blurt out. "How could you possibly forget?"

He smiles, and I bite my lip, realizing he's teasing me.

"Why apologize?" he asks. "Do you regret it?"

"No," I admit softly, because the truth is, I don't, really. I enjoyed it, and the memory makes my face burn hotter. "But it was wrong."

"Why?"

"Because I'm the leader here and that makes me your boss. Kind of." How does one explain sexual harassment to someone born in a different galaxy?

Ronon merely lifts an eyebrow.

"So," I continue. "We should just pretend that it never happened. Okay?"

"Okay." Ronon's eyebrow remains raised, and he gives a slight shake of the head and a quizzical smile. "Can I go shower now?"

"Yes. Of course. Please." I let go of his arm and move aside to let him pass.

He takes a step and stops, turning back to me. Laying his hand lightly on my shoulder, he leans down and drops a kiss on the top of my head. He straightens and strides away from me into the city, leaving me alone with the stars.

the end


End file.
